


Bind Me Not

by IronPagoda



Category: CrankGameplays - Fandom, Supernatural AU, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Demons, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26978263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronPagoda/pseuds/IronPagoda
Summary: A one shot of a Supernatural crossover in which Ethan tries his luck at hunting and it ends poorly.
Relationships: Crankiplier, Mark Fischbach/Ethan Nestor
Comments: 16
Kudos: 104





	Bind Me Not

**Author's Note:**

> Love Supernatural and Unus Annus....and now we're here. Just a demon gettin' what it deserves and some Crankiplier fluff in a nice little package.

Mark knows he needs to go in that house. 

One phone call from his buddy, and he’s driven nonstop for four hours to be here.

All the same, he knows what is waiting for him. 

Amy’s already digging in the trunk for their supplies, undeterred from the ominous sight. He watches the house, looking for some sign that there’s evil in there. It’s a cloudless fall day, crisp, perfect for family outings. The house itself is picturesque in the evening light, the sun filling in the cracks on the siding with its burn. Two bedrooms, a soundproof cellar, salt line running the property- his friend has certainly made it a home.

“Mark?” He turns towards his name, spotting his nonplussed companion shoving a duffel in his direction. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah...kinda.” He ends on a low note, eyes locked on the structure looming before them.

“Are you sure you can do this?”

“Are you doubting me?” It’s supposed to be a joke, but the concern is washing over him like an ocean and he does not need that right now.

“It’s Ethan,” she reminds him, as if she has to.  _ Ethan.  _ Manic, sweet, Ethan. “We might have to exorcise him.”  _ Might.  _ He’s a grown ass man and she’s still trying to soften the blow. It’s not a ‘might.’

“That’s why I’m gonna do it.”

They storm the front door, knocking harder than necessary. Tyler responds through the wood with an accusatory greeting. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Mark,” he huffs.

“Who else?”

“Hi, Tyler.” Amy smiles, knowing there’s a peep hole somewhere.

A few clunks and rattles tell Mark he’s upped the locks on his door again.  _ Prepared for the goddamn apocalypse.  _ He doesn’t say much as they’re ushered in quickly, just stalking through the mess of his home and towards the cellar.

“Found him in Versetto, ‘bout an hour from here. Got reports of people getting ‘magically cured’ and stupid rich. Surprised it was Ethan.”

“Yeah, well, it’s  _ not  _ Ethan”

“Figured. That’s why I went easy on him.” His mouth perks up for a moment, but as he pulls back the steel door, his definition of ‘easy’ was not the same in their books.

Heavy bruising along his jaw accentuates the sharpness of his face under the bright fluorescents. His left shoulder is propped up from the metal restraints on the chair, but it’s hanging at a weird angle. 

Mark looks him up and down with a grimace. Because it’s obviously  _ not _ Ethan. It’s whatever is wearing him like a meat suit. Posture like a 50’s school teacher, head held high like Satan’s finest. It’s got him dressed in some black, gothic suit with matching black socks and shoes. It’s a fucking stereotype, and he’s lucky Tyler caught him first. 

And to top it off, it’s pierced his goddamn ear. Just the one, with a silvery ring that sparkles as he lifts his head at them. Grinning.

His eyes flick to black, just to piss him off. “Oh,” he croons, low and scratchy. “I figured he was saving me for someone special. But  _ you... _ this is gonna be a treat.”

Mark runs his tongue over his front teeth, swallowing his rage for now. With a harsh breath, he unzips his duffel, Amy following suit. They’ve got enough holy water to drown a groundhog, and he’s stored it in an old Roundup bottle. ‘Not Ethan' is muttering a few words while he primes the pump, but Mark’s focused on the repetitive sounds of the  _ shush shush shush  _ of the air building up in the sprayer. Without hesitation, he points it in that  _ thing’s  _ face and gives it a good dousing. 

It screams using his voice. That flat noise coming from the back of his throat as it sizzles and burns. Mark’s hand twitches on the trigger. 

He forces himself to keep going. 

Amy’s got the passage pulled up in their book as he finishes his torture. He’s only using the lighter stuff today. Ethan’s still in there, still intact as it seems. It’s going to be as quick and painless as he can make it. Lucky fucking demon.

_ “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.” _

It knows this, and through the pained gasps it mocks him. “Mark!” It whines, not even trying to pretend. The eyes are still black for God’s sakes. “It’s me, Ethan!”

“You’re not Ethan.”

“Starbucks, come  _ on,  _ I love it!”

His lip curls up in disgust. “You’re an abomination.” 

Amy is shooting daggers at him from her peripherals, warning him. But she doesn’t stop reading. “ _ Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te... cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare…” _

“Video Games! Dogs! Besties-”

Mark slams a fist across his face. The chair is bolted to the floor, but it shakes in its spot. 

_ Shit. No, Ethan- _

It’s teeth are bright and shiny. “Oh  _ no.  _ That hurt. His nose is broken, he doesn’t like that.” It grows louder when he backs away, nearly tripping on his bag. 

“And he likes you…”

_ “...ade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis... Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine…” _

“All those nights together…” It’s shaking violently, refusing to scream the curses carved into the back of its throat. They’re nearly there.

And it won’t. Shut. Up.

“Him underneath you…” There’s a growl in it’s throat, a snarl on its face. “Getting fucked like a needy bitch-”

Mark’s gotten those words to stop. Three iron rings wrapped around his fingers and those fingers wrapped around its neck. He’s staring dead on into those black eyes, even when they fade away and force him to see the blue-green colors James Taylor had to have personally written about.

“That’s not important.” From somewhere deep and dark, he growls, letting his breath catch in the shadow of hair on its face. “Because in the end, you’re gonna find out that there are worse things than hell.”

Its skin is sizzling under the iron, smoking and burning away. The smell is gut wrenching, instinctively horrifying and begging him to back off. He forces himself closer, feeling the physical strain under his fingertips as Amy reads out the last few words.

_ “...quem inferi tremunt... Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.” _

Black smoke pours from his gaping mouth, choking his throat as it spills and burns into the floor. Eyes rolling back, body convulsing, retching up the evil inside.

As the quiet returns, no one dares to break its presence. 

_ Will he breathe?  _ They think.

_ Will he live?  _ They pray.

And with a resounding sob, God has gotten off his negligent ass. 

Tyler tags himself in, hands shoving random keys into random locks as Mark attacks Ethan’s face with soothing kisses and desperate pleas. He can see the recognition in him, but the cries grow louder and louder with every waking realization of pain. 

Hiccuping, choked off sobs, gushing with every breath, his chest collapsing and struggling to rise again. They pull him out of the chair, his head lolling back and staring unfocused at the devil's trap carved into the ceiling. He’s laid flat on the concrete, no time for gentle care. 

Mark holds his head, Amy holds down his limbs, and Tyler readies his bad arm.

“Get ready,” he warns, getting his hands into position. “He’s not gonna like this.”

_ “Really?”  _ Amy snaps, struggling to contain the scrawny flailing.

He bites back a choice word. “Alright, one...two...THREE!”

“FUUUUCK!” Ethan’s shrill, drawn out curse rapidly devolves into babbling nonsense and thick tears that Mark wipes away as much as he can. 

Tyler draws up the sleeve, the black material stiff and making it difficult to find a vein while he’s trying to carefully hold a syringe in his teeth. Amy helps him stabilize the area while the needle sinks into the spindly blue river drawn tight from stress.

The panicked, rabbit-like breathing slows over an agonizing chunk of time. Mark doesn’t know what time it is anymore, he’s lost in trying to keep Ethan from sinking away from him. He’s gasping quietly as Mark pulls him into his arms, bundling him close and running his hand over any free space on his head. 

There’s a small mercy that the demon didn’t cut his hair. He hated the shaved look he used to have, and it’s such a stupid thing to think about but he’s starting to cry and he needs something to distract himself from the mess he’s holding that used to be his.

* * *

Ethan vaguely remembers what it’s like being awake. He finds it difficult to differentiate between ‘awake’, and ‘not awake’, given how blurry everything is. It’s easier soon enough when the wakefulness brings pain.

His shoulder, neck, and jaw is a spotty blanket of soreness and aches. He tries to reposition himself, struggling to move against the weight on him. It’s warm, too warm. The dryness in his mouth is making his throat tighten and his heart pick up because  _ he can’t move.  _

An embarrassing whimper escapes him, rough with sleep. The weight shifts away from him, the covers slowly dragging down. “Ethan?” Someone asks groggily. “You awake, buddy?”

He’s struggling to speak, and he wants to desperately.  _ Mark! What’s going on!? Please, please help! _

Mark helps him sit up, being careful with his bad shoulder. He immediately falls against him, shaking and burying his face in his neck. Being awake is pain. He’s hot and hurting and thirsty and he just-

“Here, here you go.” The lip of a water bottle is pressed against his lips, his useless hands fumbling for it. “Just need some water.”

He does. Yes, absolutely. 

Ethan drinks greedily, letting it spill from the corners of his mouth and down his parched throat. The emptiness in his stomach protests, but he doesn’t stop until Mark hands him a couple pills, and then when there’s nothing left. His effort leaves him panting, and Mark runs his hand briskly up and down his arm. 

It catches on the loose material of his pajama shirt, reminding him that he’s not wearing that fucking suit anymore. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Mark tucks him closer and tells him  _ it’s okay _ .

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, “You’re alright. You’re okay.”

He’s struggling to take in any air, now that he’s actually got water in him it’s all wasted on tears as he sobs. “God I fuckin’...I...just  _ *hic*  _ and I didn’t  _ *hic*  _ and-and-”

“It’s okay, I know. I know, bud”

“It was just a hunt, it was just a hunt.” He’s babbling, he’s aware of it. He  _ knows  _ he’s saying nothing but it’s coming out like a river and it  _ hurts.  _ “It was s’posed to be easy but...but..”

Mark’s got his other hand flat on his chest. Grounding him. Pushing out the air and letting up when he needs it to try and get him to breath like he’s not having a meltdown. “I know,” he says, the words muffled as he dips his head down to rest it in Ethan’s hair. “We’ll getcha a tattoo, it’ll be alright.” He sighs into him, pressing a kiss to his head.

“S-so many bad-”

“S’not you. It’s gone.”

“But-”

He’s shushed. Mark tightens the arm around him, one leg bent up and the other stretched out to make room for Ethan to melt into him. Without the blankets or pressing dehydration, the soft warmth from Mark is a comfort. The huffs of air from his sore nose even out slowly while he’s got his face squished against his chest.

Mark’s not saying words anymore, just quiet rumbles of inarticulate nothing that make the growing presence of sleep more alluring. However, he doesn’t give in.

“I...I remember a lot”

“I’m sorry”

Mingled with the hiccups in his chest is a forced chuckle. “I thought you were  _ *hic*  _ actually gonna do it.”

“Do what?”

“Kill me.”

Mark scoffs, nudging his forehead against Ethan’s. “I’m insulted you thought I would.” There’s a dramatic pause between the words, drawing out his comedical disdain. “Not you...never you. You’re mine. Not some weak ass demon's.”


End file.
